Things She Says
by MusicCityDiva
Summary: After life gave them all they'd ever wanted, Monica and Chandler never expected their happily ever after to end.
1. Damn Cold Night

A/N:  I know, I know!  I haven't posted anything in…well…forever.  Most of you probably don't remember me at all.  Well, I'm back.  I was going to keep this fic short; it was originally intended to be a stand-alone, really, but turns out it had a mind of its own and wanted to be multiple chapters.  Go figure.  God help me. 

This story was inspired by Train's "I'm About to Come Alive."  Listen to it while you read this for an enhanced reading experience.

And then please read, hit that pretty little button at the bottom, and review!  

Oh, and special thanks to Accidental Beauty; this probably never would have been posted without your encouragement.  

Chapter 1: Damn Cold Night

2005

---------------

My foot was cold.

Despite the sleep-induced haze surrounding my brain, I found that I knew these two things: the room was dark and my foot was cold.

Unearthing my face from the drool-dampened pillow oasis, I opened one eyelid halfway to peer in the direction of the nightstand, where blurry red numbers glared defiantly back.  The three glowing twos confirmed my earlier assessment; it was, indeed, the middle of the night.

One mystery solved, I wiggled the toes on the offending foot slightly, trying to determine why there was cold air where there were usually warm blankets.  It was this simple act that brought me to realization: Monica wasn't there.

I slid my leg further across her side of the mattress, just to make sure she hadn't simply rolled to the outer edge.  Instead, I found only that her covers had been thrown back haphazardly, in a most un-Monica-like fashion.

This, more than her absence itself, caused me to roll to a sitting position, my heart dropping with a dull, anxious thud.  For as many years as I'd shared a bed with my wife, I had never known her to vacate her side without first conscientiously straightening the sheets and blankets.  Her inability to restrain from aligning the duvet perfectly with the pillows, even when she planned to return within minutes, had been the source of numerous jokes since the secret days of our relationship.

I reached to tidy the disarray, more for me than for her even, if just in a futile attempt at normalcy.

_'She'll be back in a minute,' _I reassured myself, leaning back against my own misshapen mound of pillows.  The thought eased me enough to close my eyes and give into the drowsiness still whispering my name.

I dozed for a second, a minute, or even an hour, but still I was alone when I reopened my eyes.  Fully conscious now, I coaxed my reluctant body out of bed, not bothering to search for my slippers, then regretting the decision as I padded across the master bedroom's chilly hardwood floor in nothing but my bare feet.

There were no lights in the bathroom, nor in the nursery, but I checked both anyway.  I didn't find her, of course, and the sense of dread in the pit of my stomach grew more insistent as I turned toward the stairs.

I descended slowly, carefully avoiding squeaky floorboards and, in the process, feeling like an intruder in my own house.  My hand firmly grasping the railing, I paused on the midway landing and searched, heel-first, for footing on the next step down.

_Creeeeaaaaakk!!_

The stair gave a telltale squawk and I froze in mid-step, sure that the noise would wake the neighbors, not to mention bring Monica running to investigate. But there was nothing.  

When I was finally able to hear over the blood pounding in my ears, I thought I could detect a low murmur from the kitchen.  I took the remaining steps two at a time and stopped at the bottom without rounding the corner into the kitchen.

Recognizing the cadence of her voice, its familiar rise and fall, I sagged against the doorframe in relief.  A nagging little voice prodded me to analyze my irrational fear that she'd gone, but I refused, choosing instead to simply be thankful she was, in fact, here.

I moved to enter the kitchen, but something in her tone stopped me.  I couldn't make out her actual words, exactly, just the rhythms of her voice, but there was definitely a catch, a stifled sob.  I hadn't yet wondered to whom she was talking, but as I squinted into the shadowy room, illuminated only by a shell-shaped nightlight, I could see her petite form tangled in the long white phone cord and her hand wrapped, white-knuckled, around the receiver held to one ear, as if it were a lifeline.  

She didn't see me; her back was to the doorway, and even from my position a few yards away, I could tell she was trembling violently, though whether from cold or emotion, I wasn't sure.

I wanted to go to her, to comfort her.  Every instinct screamed to do just that, but something in her stance warned me to stay put.  It wasn't me she needed—or wanted—just now.

It was me she had abandoned in a warm bed in exchange for a cold kitchen and a furtive midnight phone call.

Ducking back into the safety of the foyer, I had every intention of returning upstairs.

But I didn't.  Instead, I found myself leaning back against the doorframe where I could watch her surreptitiously.  The eavesdropping was wrong, I knew, yet still I leaned into the dim kitchen, straining to hear her muffled words.

"I know it's ridiculous," she was saying into the phone.  "I just don't think I can do this anymore.  I...can't."

Her voice broke on the last word and she lifted a shaky hand to soften the escaping sob.  The words, though such a definite declaration, had no sense of strength behind them, but merely a reluctant acquiescence of uncharacteristic weakness.

She listened for a moment, nodding as if the person on the other end could see her.

"Yes, he's here.  Upstairs, asleep."  

My heart soared at the realization she was speaking of me and then plunged as she continued.

"But you don't understand.  It's not him.  It was stupid of me to believe that everything was going to be okay afterwards.  Sometimes I think…" 

She paused and the weight of her words wrapped mercilessly around my heart.  I echoed her shuddering breath as I heard her speak her next thought.

"Sometimes I think that I should just leave.  It might even be better for him that way.  I'm so alone, anyway."

The last sentence was whispered to herself more than to her intended recipient, but the response from the person on the line caused Monica to square her shoulders resolutely and turn halfway toward me.  I silently stepped backward around the corner, out of her line of vision, hearing her offer the standard "the baby is crying" excuse to get off the phone.

I should know.  I've used it hundreds of times myself.

I didn't stick around to hear her say goodbye.  Instead, I hurriedly crept up the stairs and into the nursery, where I paused for a second to catch my breath before tiptoeing across the carpet to the crib.

The dinosaur lamp—a gift from Ross, naturally—cast a warm glow over the infant's body and I couldn't resist extending my index finger to touch one tiny, soft cheek.

"Hi, there," I whispered to my son.  His eyelash fluttered, brushing my finger and I held my breath in anticipation of his cry.  He only smacked his rosebud lips dreamily, and I exhaled, relieved.

Even after ten months, I was still unable to believe that he was mine, that He Belonged To Me.  The fact that we had not physically conceived him had never diminished my intense feelings of possession; he had been mine—ours—since before we had laid eyes on him.

A few years ago, Monica and I had conferred on our mutual disbelief in soul mates, that we didn't need destiny or fate cosmically sealing our love for each other.  But this, this love I felt for my child, was different.  From the first time I held Daniel, my son, I knew he was meant to belong to us.

Now, I moved my hand to rest on his back, finding serenity in the steady rhythm of his deep, even breathing.

_'In, out.  In, out,' _I chanted silently, my thumb caressing his chubby arm.

So intent was I in this mantra that I didn't notice Monica behind me until her soft question broke the stillness.

"Is he awake?" she asked, peering into the crib to see for herself.

Torn between the impulse to engulf her in my arms or to turn on my heel and leave, I did neither.  Instead, I shook my head needlessly and removed my hand from the crib, feeling as if I'd done something wrong.

She glanced up at me and our eyes met and caught.  I knew I was searching for answers to the questions I couldn't bear to ask out loud, and she froze, a look of vulnerable indecision flitting across her face.

And just as quickly, her guard went up, almost visible in the ice blue of her eyes.  She focused her gaze on the baby before I could read her expression.

"You should get some sleep," she advised me feebly as she fussed with tucking the blankets securely around Daniel.

I nodded, feeling the dismissal—and rejection—in the statement.  I knew I should pry, maybe for the sake of saving my marriage, but I couldn't bring myself to ask for a list of reasons as to why I was no longer good enough.

Muttering goodnight, I turned to head back to our vacant bed, knowing somehow that she wouldn't be returning that night.  I looked back at her and saw I was right—she was all ready settling into the rocking chair with the baby in her arms.

I wasn't expecting to say the words, wasn't even sure _why _I felt I had to say it at all, but feeling it was necessary just the same.

"I'm sorry," I offered in a low voice, unsure of what exactly I was apologizing for.  

For a moment, I wasn't positive she had even heard me.  But then, I saw her shrug listlessly.

"It's not your fault," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

And yet I couldn't help feeling that it was, somehow.

----------------

I can hear you downstairs, crying on the phone 

_Telling someone that I'm here, but you still feel all alone_

_Maybe we were too young, goodbye, I've gotta go_

_I can hear the baby waking up, gotta get back to the life I know_

_Maybe I'm not, but you're all I've got left to believe in_

_Don't give up on me, I'm about to come alive…_

_(I'm About To Come Alive; Train; 2003)_


	2. With A Little Help From My Friends

A/N: Just a little warning for this one; it DOES contain some spoilers for the season finale.  Now, whether or not they'll turn out to be true, we'll just have to wait and see, but I decided to take some artistic license, anyway.  So proceed at your own risk!

Chapter 2: With A Little Help From My Friends 

****

One year earlier 

_------------------------_

 "Chandler!"

The shrill voice that rang through the apartment was definitely not a happy one, and I found myself wincing at the sound of my own name.  I knew what she wanted, what she had been nagging at me to decide for weeks, and still I wasn't prepared to face her reaction.

Now, as I stood in the bedroom listening to her footsteps march purposefully through the apartment, I knew I should just do the grown-up thing and tell her how I felt.  Instead, I dropped the pile of t-shirts I was sorting and lunged for the nearest hiding place.  

Pulling the closet door shut behind me, I slid to the floor amongst the shoes and empty duffle bags and leaned back against the wall, wishing for a magical door to open and invite me into the land of Narnia.  Or Barbados.  Or Blargon 7, for that matter.  Beggars can't be choosers, after all, and I wasn't picky—just as long as there was no packing.

She entered the room, her footsteps hesitating when she didn't find me.  I could picture her frowning at the abandoned t-shirts scattered on the bed and heard her shut the half-open dresser drawer with an aggravated thump as she muttered incoherently under her breath.  

Guilt began to set in, whispering accusations that I knew, deep down, were true.  _'It's not that I'm avoiding her,' _I argued back.  _'I'm just…waiting for a better time.  When she's not so stressed.  When I've had time to think of something more convincing.'_

The closet door creaked open.  Crap.  Now or never.   Actually, probably not never.  More like now.

"Chandler!"

She was staring down at me with an expression somewhere between irritation and exasperation.  I looked up, hoping I could pull off an irresistibly charming grin—and sneezed instead.  

"Bless you," she said drolly.  "_What _are you doing in there?"

I attempted the grin again and threw in a boyish shrug for good measure.  "Um…looking for this?"  Without checking, I extended the first thing I grabbed for her inspection. 

Monica rolled her eyes.  "Well, now that you've found your jock strap, can we please talk?" she asked, backing out of the way so I could crawl out.

Once I was on my feet facing her, she raised an eyebrow at me, waiting.  

_'Just say it.  Just say it, just say it, just say it,' _chanted the personal squad of cheerleaders in my head.  I took a deep breath and prepared to make my declaration.

"Iwannakeepit," I mumbled.  There.  That wasn't so hard.

"What?"

Damn it.  "I want to keep it," I enunciated in a volume barely louder, but at least I was looking at her this time.

"Channdlllleeerrrrrrr!" she whined and stomped out the bedroom door.  

I had no choice but to follow, justifying myself all the way.  "Monica, I just don't see what the big deal is."

"You don't see what the big deal is?"  Monica repeated incredulously, her voice again growing shrill.  

I struggled to sound calm.  "It's just that Joey gave it to me.  And now that he won't be around anymore, I want something that reminds me of him and the old apartment."

"It's not like he's dying!" she spat.  "He's just moving!"

"Across the_ country_, Monica!  God knows how long it'll be before we see him again!  Aren't you sad about that at all?"

"Of course I am!  I just don't understand why you can't keep a…I don't know…a _picture _or something.  That thing is ugly!  And I don't want to haul it across the state when it doesn't even go with any of my…" she caught herself, blue eyes widening, "_…our _things."  

My mind immediately flashed back to variations of this same argument.  There had been the once with Rachel, a decade ago, over an admittedly ugly lamp inherited from Mr. Heckles' apartment.  And then once with me, more recently, over my prized Barcalounger, which I ended up losing in the end, anyway.  

I wasn't going to lose this time, and the memory of my chair gave me the fuel I needed to persist, although I recognized the signs of a major fight brewing.

"_Your _things?  That's what it always comes down to, doesn't it, Mon?  You've never wanted anyone else's stuff—no matter how sentimental it is—to get in the way of your perfect decorating scheme," I accused, my own voice rising a few decibels. 

"That's not true!" she protested, but I interrupted. 

"Yeah, it is!  I just want to keep_ one _thing, Monica!  One!"  I gestured wildly toward the balcony and strode over to the window to point at the object in question—the big white dog sculpture that resided there.

"I know it's big and I know it's ugly!  But it's _one_ thing!  As opposed to your _millions_ of little things!"

She bristled, fire in her eyes.  "Like what?" she demanded, chin jutting defiantly.  

I glanced around the room and began to list the first things my eyes landed on, pointing out each item.  "Like…candles!  And those stupid little boxes that are too small to keep stuff in!  And...and...  _and _this damn French poster that you don't even know what it says!"

Monica's eyes had practically bugged out her head by now, but I wasn't done yet.  I had remembered something else.  Something big.  

"Not to mention your _freakin'_ secret closet full of junk we never even use!"

She opened her mouth to retort, then snapped it shut and whirled on one heel, leaving me standing in the middle of the apartment as she slammed the door behind her.  

***

I woke to the feeling of cold feet on my leg, many hours later.  Groaning, I pulled away and pretended to be asleep.  She removed her feet from my leg, but spooned her body around my back and ran her fingers down my left arm, just enough to make the hairs stand on edge in tingling anticipation.

"Chandler?  You asleep?"

"Uh huh."  I wasn't ready to make up, not just yet.  I moved away from her so we were no longer touching.

She scooted closer, resting her head on my shoulder, and sighed heavily, but was otherwise silent.

I could feel my resolve crumbling, especially when I felt the dampness of her tears soak through my t-shirt.

"Mon..."

She began crying harder, but made no move to wipe away her tears.  "I'm sorry," she choked out.  "You can keep the dog."

I rolled over to face her and hugged her close, letting her cry out the rest of her tears into my chest.  When they subsided, I kissed the top of her head and answered her.  

"I'm sorry, too.  I shouldn't have gotten so mad."

She took a ragged breath.  "It's not just tonight.  I know I've been really moody lately, and I'm sorry for that, too.  I'm just so tired, with the move and everyone leaving.  I guess I'm not handling it very well."

"No one is," I murmured soothingly.  

She pulled back abruptly to look at me.  "What are you talking about?  Everyone else is!  Phoebe and Mike didn't have any trouble moving in together!  Even when Mike asked her to get rid of some of her weird stuff, she didn't even care!  And…and Joey's almost completely packed!  Even Rachel hasn't even asked for my help!"

I searched my mind for something helpful to say.  "Well, honey, she probably sees that you've all ready got enough on your hands…"

Monica interrupted, her voice rising in desperation.  "That's just it!  This is usually _my_ thing!  I've always been _the best _at packing!  And now, just when _everyone _is in the middle of moving, I'm suddenly overwhelmed by my own!"

The fact that the utter distress evidenced on her face was caused by packing, of all things, would have been comical if she wasn't absolutely right.  I felt the first real twinge of alarm travel through me as I realized that Monica hadn't been herself lately—hadn't felt up to sorting through our own belongings, much less jumping at the task of supervising everyone else's moving activities.

I tried not to let my concerns play out on my face.  Suddenly feeling very tired myself, I simply promised her that I'd take care of everything and then rubbed her back until we both drifted into oblivion.

***

True to my word, I followed through on my promise the very next day by enlisting Phoebe, Mike, Joey, Ross, and Rachel to help pack.  Monica's mood still hadn't improved by the next morning, and after snarling at my repeated suggestions that she take a nap, she finally slipped into a deep sleep.  Needless to say, when I opened the door to admit Rachel and Ross, I was more than ready to greet some smiling faces.  

I was out of luck—at least with these two.  

"We can't stay long, Chandler," Ross was all ready admonishing as he stepped into the apartment.  "My mom is taking care of Emma for the day, and Rachel wants to spend as much time with her as possible before she leaves."

Rachel followed him in, almost meekly, I thought, observing the cautious look she gave Ross before speaking herself.  "It's not a big deal, Ross.  I want to spend time with these guys, too."  

Ross nodded curtly and strode to the refrigerator, yanking the door open with a violence that made me flinch.  

Both Rachel and I gazed after him before I turned to her with a sympathetic smile.  

"He's still not taking it well, I see."  It was more a statement than question.

Rachel shrugged listlessly and averted her eyes from mine in a failed attempt to hide the sudden glimmer of tears.  

"He keeps accusing me of abandoning Emma," she admitted, her voice low.  "But I know what he's really thinking—that I'm abandoning _him_."

I stole a glance at Ross, who was staring impassively out the living room window, beer in hand and shoulders rigid.

"It's not like it's permanent," I protested, still maintaining confidential tones.  "You're not moving to Paris forever.  It's just for…what?  A year?"

I blushed, realizing that I hadn't stated anything of which she wasn't all ready painfully aware.  But she only nodded contemplatively.

"Yeah, that's what I keep telling him—that it's just a year," Rachel confirmed.  "But then, I think…oh, god, Chandler...a year is a really long time.  I mean, when I think of all the new things that Emma does in just a year and that I'm going to miss all that…" 

Her voice trailed off and a single tear broke free and raced down her cheek.  She absently reached to brush it away and continued, her eyes finally meeting mine in a desperate search for guidance.

"Answer me honestly," she implored.  "Do you think I'm being entirely selfish?"

I didn't know what to say.  

But thankfully, I was saved by Joey, Phoebe, and Mike, who arrived in a burst of chaos and lighthearted banter that even stirred Ross from his unseeing watch over the balcony.  

I moved to greet them, feeling guilty that I had avoided Rachel's question, but as I glanced at her in concern, I realized that she was all ready the perfect picture of casual breeziness, making me wonder if I had imagined her anguish just moments before.  But then, she caught my expression and threw me a rueful smile over Joey's shoulder as he engulfed her in a hug.  

"We brought all our empty boxes," Phoebe was saying.  "Although I did have to deconstruct Mike and Joey's fort to do it."

She threw a tender smile at her husband, who was busy fielding a high-five from his fort-building accomplice.

"Anyway," she continued, "where's Mon?  I'm all a-ready to start label-makin'."

"She's taking a nap," I told her.  

"No, I'm not."

The six of us turned to see Monica emerge from the bedroom, tugging a sweatshirt on over her tank top.  I started at her appearance—beyond looking simply disoriented from her nap, her face was pale and drawn.  Truthfully, she looked more exhausted now than she had before falling asleep.

The thought crossed my mind that it was just my own paranoia, but looking around, I could tell the others noticed, too, judging by their collective expressions of alarm.  Rachel was the first to conceal hers and moved toward Monica with a surprising air of tranquility, considering her previous state.  

"Hi, honey," Rachel addressed Monica as if nothing were abnormal.  "We're ready for you to put us to work."

Monica stretched her arms over her head, yawning deeply before answering.  "Thanks, you guys, for coming.  You didn't have to, you know."

"It's not a big deal, Mon.  We're happy to help" Joey piped up next to me, his voice offhandedly cheerful.  I wondered if I was the only one that could sense the undercurrent of worry in his words.  "Besides, someone's gotta help Chandler here lift all the heavy stuff," Joey added, with a teasing sideways glance at me.  

"Thanks, man," I said wryly, relieved to see Monica smile along with everyone else.  

She walked toward us, carefully skirting the stack of boxes next to the couch.  "Well, in that case," she began in her best drill sergeant voice, "what are we waiting for?"

***

The day passed quickly, in a flurry of cardboard boxes and packing tape, and before I knew it, my stomach was protesting loudly in anticipation of dinner.  We had taken a brief pizza break early in the afternoon, but several hours had passed since then.  Ross and Rachel had departed long ago to pick up Emma and have dinner with Jack and Judy Geller, and Mike and Phoebe left soon after, with genuine apologies that they had previous plans as well.  

Seeing the fatigue in Monica's eyes after everyone had left, I had gently suggested that she lay down for a little while, to which she had agreed easily.  So only Joey and I remained, struggling to dismantle the bed frame in the spare room.

We worked in amicable silence for a time, the extent of our conversation consisting only of a series of volleyed grunts.  Then Joey spoke up tentatively.

"Is everything okay?" he asked simply, as if he'd been contemplating the wisdom of saying anything at all.

I looked over to find him studying me carefully, eyebrows furrowed in concern.  A zillion flippant remarks ran through my head, but as I took in his expression, I realized that this was my best friend and that there was no way to ease his apprehension without being completely callous.

I shrugged and raked my fingers through my tousled hair absentmindedly.  "Honestly?  I'm not sure, Joe.  At first, I thought maybe she was just upset about moving and about all of us going our separate ways.  But now…" I hesitated and looked thoughtfully at the wall that divided this room from the one where Monica slept.  "I think it's something else.  Something worse."

"Well, I have something that might cheer her up."

Turning abruptly, we found Phoebe framed in the doorway of the spare bedroom, a gift bag dangling from one finger and a grin on her face.

Joey and I exchanged confused glances, then looked back at Phoebe and spoke simultaneously, our words colliding in mid-air.

"I thought you had plans."

"What's in the bag?" 

Phoebe's grin only grew wider, and she motioned for us to follow her as she left the room.  

I looked Joey with uncertainty, thinking he had a better handle on Phoebe's oddities than I, only to find that the perplexity on his face mirrored mine.  Seeing that I apparently had no other choice, I walked into the living room, Joey right behind me, just in time to see Phoebe open the door to the bedroom Monica and I shared.  

"Wait," I called after her.  She paused to look back at me and I crossed the room in four long strides.  "Monica's asleep," I explained, the thought occurring to me that maybe Phoebe wanted to perform one of her healing rituals to cleanse the apartment's aura or something.  Whatever it

was, despite Phoebe's good intentions, I was fairly certain that Monica wouldn't appreciate being woken from a sound sleep.

"I know," she responded, pushing the door open fully and entering the room.  

A wave of slight irritation passed over me and I laid a restraining hand on Phoebe's arm.  "Pheebs, I'm sure I appreciate whatever is you're going to do, but.." I paused, searching for the most tactful refusal, "...I just don't think..."

Phoebe leveled a tranquil gaze at me, stopping me in mid-sentence.  "Chandler.  Trust me," she stated with soothing confidence.

I looked back at Joey helplessly, but he only shrugged and followed me into the bedroom, where Phoebe was gently shaking Monica's shoulder.  Monica stirred, her eyelashes fluttering.

"Monica.  Wake up," Phoebe urged softly.

Monica peered up at Phoebe through half-open lids.  "Pheebs?" she mumbled drowsily.  "Is something wrong?"

Phoebe held up the bag she carried for Monica to see.  "Gotcha a little present," she said in a singsong voice.

That woke Monica up; she loved gifts of any kind.  Pulling herself to a sitting position, she noticed Joey and I, hovering in the doorway, for the first time.  

"Did you know about this?" Monica directed at me curiously.

I shook my head and stepped closer to the bed as Monica eagerly accepted the gift from Phoebe.  Opening the bag, Monica peered into its depths.  Joey and I leaned forward in anticipation as Phoebe looked on with a knowing smile.  

Monica stared, transfixed, at whatever it was for a full minute, her expression first registering confusion, then anxiety, then realization, and finally, joy.  I almost screamed in frustration as ever so slowly, Monica reached into the bag with both hands, withdrawing the gift, and held it up for my inspection in her trembling fists.

She showed me two items, but it was solely the one in her left hand that made my heart nearly stop.  As it was, I stumbled backward into an equally shocked Joey, the many indications hitting me in one moment of startled clarity.

Meanwhile, Phoebe was observing our open-mouthed reactions, delighted that her gift had had the desired effect.  She giggled, with barely-suppressed glee, before addressing Monica.

"Just don't mix those up," she advised with a certain air of superiority.  "You could really ruin that lollypop."


	3. Promises You Can't Keep

A/N: This is a long one, folks.  In a way, though, I figure I owe it to you since this chapter has been such a long time in coming.  I can only hope that this will prove to be sufficient compensation.  And if so, do me a favor and express your opinion in a review, 'kay?

Chapter 3: Promises You Can't Keep 

"Push!"

It was at least the twenty-ninth time I'd said it, but to my immense frustration, the only response I'd received so far was a series of half-hearted grunts.  I glanced up briefly, searching for a way to help hurry the process, but found I was unable to see over the obstruction blocking my view.  Undeterred, I opted for further impassioned words of encouragement.  

"Come on!" I yelled, entertaining visions of a NFL head coach encouraging his team during their final play.  "You can do it!  Push harder!"

Still nothing.  I took a deep breath before gearing up again.

"Push!  Push!  Puuuuhhh—ooossssshh!  Push!  Pushpushpush!  Puuu…oof!"

I staggered backward, burdened under sudden weight, as Joey's head appeared above the dresser we were attempting to move.  And if the look on his face was any indication, he was _not_ amused.

"Dude!  I hear you, okay?  But no matter how loud you yell, this thing still ain't fittin' through that door!"

I set down my own end of the heavy oak dresser and stepped back to assess the situation.  Seeing no solution from my end of the problem, I dragged over a chair and barely managed to hoist myself over the dresser.   Thoughtfully, I evaluated the problem from Joey's side.  Finally, I shrugged and looked over at my disgruntled assistant.

"You're probably right," I admitted reluctantly.

"No kidding," Joey retorted, all ready headed downstairs, presumably toward the kitchen.

With one last glance at the furniture stuck in the master bedroom's doorway, I followed, justifying that a cold beverage might be just the rejuvenation I needed.

I found Joey rummaging through refrigerator, just as predicted.  

"Hey, grab me a beer, would ya?"

Joey emerged with two in his hand and handed one to me, pausing to press the chilled glass bottle against the heat-flushed skin of his neck.  I followed suit, enjoying the sensation of coolness against my sweat-dampened forehead.  

"You guys _would_ decide to move during the longest heat wave May in New York has ever experienced," Joey groused, twisting the cap off his beer with practiced ease.

I smiled apologetically, knowing that it was true.  Temperatures had skyrocketed to well over one hundred degrees and had stayed that way for a running total of five miserable days.  The heat was affecting everyone's disposition negatively, and was rapidly diminishing enthusiasm regarding the gang's respective moves.

Between the stress of the move and the discomfort of pregnancy, I had fully expected the heat to render Monica especially vulnerable.  Much to my own astonishment, however, Monica seemed to thrive and even to regain the energy she had lacked before realizing her condition.  While I continued to plod through the chores of moving with the help of Joey, Ross, or Mike, or a combination of the three, Monica fairly bounced from task to task, usually accompanied by a less-enthused Rachel or Phoebe.  She had visited practically every home design store within the city limits and talked incessantly about the list of baby supply stores she planned to frequent next.  

_'Granted,' _I thought, lifting my beer bottle to my lips, _'most of Monica's daily activities involve traipsing around in air conditioned stores and cars.'_

The thought of air conditioning triggered a memory, and I groaned as I realized I'd forgotten to call the repairman…again.  The system had been on the fritz since, ironically, the day before the heat wave had hit.  I had attempted several times to make an appointment for repairs, but naturally, the air conditioning service center had been flooded with calls, resulting in countless minutes spent on hold and apologetic cancellations.  Before departing for her daily shopping excursion, Monica had asked me to please attempt to secure another appointment today, but so far, I had lacked the motivation to spend another afternoon with my ear attached to the phone.

"Where is Monica today?"  Joey's voice broke into my thoughts, and I shook my head, trying to clear the heat-induced haze that fogged my attention span. 

"Um…she drove back into the city, I think.  Lunch with Pheebs and maybe Rachel, and I think today was the big crib-shopping day."

"Lunch?" Joey seized on the word hopefully, and as if summoned, his stomach gave a responsive growl.  

I chuckled and reached for a bag of pretzels, handing them to Joey.  "Here.  This'll have to do.  We haven't really been grocery shopping yet."

Joey accepted the bag, but looked at it in clear disdain.  "Pretzels?  You torture me with physical labor in sweltering weather and then offer me _pretzels_?  That's just insulting, dude."  

The man was right, I realized.  It had been too long since any of us had eaten anything besides microwavable meals and snack food, and even longer since the whole gang had gathered together with the intention of simply _relaxing_.   And with both Joey's and Rachel's impending relocations, we wouldn't have a chance to do so much longer.

"You're right," I declared, a plan formulating in my mind.  "What do you say to getting everyone together tonight?  We'll cook out, break in the swimming pool, celebrate the new jobs and the babies…"

"What do I say?"  Joey sneered one last time at the pretzels before tossing them down and handing me the cordless phone.  "Start dialing."

I complied, punching in the numbers of Monica's cell phone.

"Hey, Mon," I said when she answered.  I grinned at Joey.

He grinned back, raising his beer bottle in salute.  

***

Her left hand firmly on the steering wheel, Monica flipped her cell phone closed with her right, unable to suppress the smile of contentment that spread across her face.  Pushing her sunglasses back into position on the bridge of her nose, she glanced at the occupant of the Porsche's passenger seat.  

"Got any plans for tonight?"

Phoebe grinned wryly.  "Oh, yeah, big plans.  Reality TV and leftover Chinese take-out."  She raised an eyebrow at Monica.  "Unless, of course, you have a better offer."

Monica giggled.  "Grilled veggie burgers and use of the pool?  Not to mention of pleasure of your friends' company?"

"Well, in that case…" Phoebe hesitated, pretending to consider.  "Yeah, count us in.  Just let me call Mike."

As Phoebe dialed, Monica found herself humming along with the radio, even tapping her fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat.  Four more days.  Just four more days until Erica's due date--and the possible arrival of the baby.  

_'Of course,_' Monica cautioned herself, _'it doesn't mean the baby is definitely going to be born that day.'  _She knew that.  But still, the possibility was there, and that alone had been enough to fuel Monica's perpetually cheerful mood for the past week, despite the horrendous heat that had engulfed the city and its surrounding areas.

_'And don't worry,'_ she thought, hoping the unborn child she carried could hear her unspoken words.  Just in case, she rested one hand gently on her stomach and whispered.

"I haven't forgotten about you.  Not much longer until we meet you, too."

"What did you say?"  

Phoebe's voice cut into the dialogue, making Monica jerk in surprise.  She had almost forgotten Phoebe was there.  

"Oh!  Nothing," she answered quickly, feeling irrationally embarrassed.  After all, this was Phoebe—the woman who had spoken to embryos before they had even left the petrie dish.  Still, something in Monica wanted to keep this conversation between herself and her baby.  She quickly changed the subject. 

"So what did Mike say?"

Thankfully, Phoebe didn't seem to notice the veer in topics, as she was currently engrossed in disentangling her long blond strands from the sunglasses she had propped on top of her head.  

"It's fine with him," Phoebe answered distractedly.  "He was on his way over to your place soon, anyway, to help Joey and Chandler with some dresser situation."

Monica wrinkled her forehead, squelching the desire to call Chandler and immediately demand the specifics of this particular dresser situation.  Noticing this, Phoebe scrambled mentally for a diversion that would deter Monica from immediately heading back to the house.  

"Have you called Rachel yet?"

Monica shook her head, the worry lines in her forehead diminishing dramatically.  "No.  When I called her to ask if she wanted to have lunch with us, she sounded…" Monica paused, groping for the right word.  "…kind of distracted.  She said to pick her up at Ross' after lunch to go crib shopping with us.  I figure I'll just ask them both about tonight then."

"Ross must be taking Emma for the rest of the day," Phoebe concluded, and Monica nodded.  "So that's where we're headed now?"

"Uh huh.  And then to look at cribs," Monica proclaimed, her eyes lighting up.  "I have the list of stores all planned out, according to location and optimum parking and availability on the cribs I'm most interested in.  Wait 'til you see my favorite one…"

The two women chatted amiably as Monica navigated the city streets to Ross' apartment building.  Rounding the corner onto Ross' block, Monica reduced her speed, keeping her eyes open for an available parking spot.  So intent was Monica in her mission that Phoebe was the first to notice the lone figure pacing by the apartment building's entrance.  

"Isn't that Rachel right there?" Phoebe asked, pointing.  

It was.  As Phoebe rolled down her window and procured Rachel's attention, Monica rolled to a stop and double-parked long enough for Rachel to slip into the backseat.  The sound of the door slamming violently caused Monica to flinch.

"Hey, careful of the doors.  They…" Glancing at the Rachel in the rearview mirror, Monica's admonitions died on her lips as she took in Rachel's appearance.  

Her normally perfectly pulled-together friend was in a state of alarming disarray.  Rachel's usual sleek coiffure was mussed and tangled into a messy ponytail.   Her purse was open, with her wallet and various other items half falling out.  But most startling were her eyes, bloodshot and red-rimmed, with mascara stains dripping down her cheeks.  

"Rach," Monica said, trying not to sound overly alarmed.  "Are you okay, sweetie?"  She shifted the car into 'park' and she and Phoebe both turned to face their friend.  

Rachel nodded without looking at either of them   Instead, she turned her attention to her purse and began to randomly pull items out, as if searching for something.  Astute as always, Phoebe reached into her own purse and offered Rachel a tissue.  

Monica and Phoebe waited patiently for Rachel to mop at her tear-streaked face.  Finally, seeming to realize that the other two women weren't going to simply ignore her, Rachel crumpled the tissue in her hand and forced an unconvincing smile.  

"Sorry, guys," she said shakily.  "It's nothing.  Really.  Just another stupid fight with Ross over Paris."  

Monica shot Phoebe a wary expression.  She was never sure how involved she wanted to be in these arguments between her best friend and her brother, especially now that Emma was involved.  

"Is there anything we can do?" Monica asked cautiously.  

Rachel was shaking her head before Monica even finished the sentence.  "No," she declared firmly, pulling the elastic band from her ponytail and attempting to smooth her hair.  "I just…" Her eyes took on a faraway look before refocusing on Monica and Phoebe.  "I don't want to talk about it.  Let's just go shop, okay?  I promise I won't ruin your afternoon."

The resolution in Rachel's eyes did not invite further probing, and Phoebe and Monica exchanged a concerned glance as Rachel resumed restoring order to her appearance.  

"Okay, then," Monica muttered, reaching for the gearshift.  "Here we go again."  

***

Rachel was true to her word; she didn't ruin the afternoon with her initial gloominess.  In fact, by the time the girls reached the first store, any impartial observer would never have guessed that this same woman had been near breakdown not very much earlier.  

Judging by Rachel's demeanor by the time the girls arrived at the house, I never would have guessed myself if Monica hadn't immediately pulled me aside to inform me almost as soon as she entered the house.  Remembering the careful façade that Rachel had donned the day the gang had helped us pack, I had no trouble believing Monica's description.  

Glancing out the kitchen window over Monica's head, I could see Phoebe and Rachel emerge into the backyard where Joey, Mike, and Ross were all ready gathered.  Phoebe strode easily to poolside where Mike and Joey sat shirtless, bare feet dangling in the water.  Rachel paused briefly in the doorway as she noticed Ross hovering over the grill on the deck's far side with Emma playing contently in the grass nearby.  After a moment, Rachel crossed the deck, carefully skirting Ross, and scooped up her daughter.  Watching this, a thought occurred to me, and I looked back at Monica, concerned. 

"Should I not have invited Ross?" I asked, pondering the absurdity of the question even as it left my mouth.  We had been through this before—there was no way to choose between being friends with either Ross _or_ Rachel; it had to be both. 

Monica was shaking her head.  "No, Rachel said everything would be fine," she assured me, her confident tone undermined by her worried glance out the window.  

"It will be," I confirmed, trying to believe it myself.  After all, we'd certainly been through enough episodes of the Ross-and-Rachel soap opera before.  

"Anyway," I said to Monica in an attempt to change the subject.  "How are _you _feeling?"  

Monica beamed at me, the joy in her face completely erasing any traces of anxiety over our friends.  "Great!" she proclaimed.  "We found the cribs today, did I tell you?  They're perfect.  Just what I wanted."  

I returned her smile, feeling the thrill that this was really happening—and soon—surge through me in a wave of excitement.   The first baby was due to arrive within four days.  Then, in less than five months, Monica was scheduled to deliver our second child.  After so many months of waiting, the reality of the babies' arrivals seemed nearly impossible.  "Great!" I echoed, before moving on to more practical matters.  "When are they being delivered?"

Something unreadable flickered through Monica's expression, and I had the unmistakable impression that I wasn't going to like what I was about to hear.  

"Weeellll…" Monica dragged out the word, noticeably fumbling for a way to soften her next words.  

I raised my eyebrows at her.  "Yeah?"

"Well, the thing is…the store won't be able to deliver the cribs for at least five days, since they ship merchandise directly from their warehouse in New Jersey.  But they said we could have the two they have in stock tomorrow…" Monica emphasized the word, trying to make it sound as enticing as possible before rushing on to finish her statement.  "…if we're willing to pick them up ourselves."

I sighed.  "I can't, Mon.  I _have_ to go into work tomorrow if I want to take any time off when the babies get here."  

Monica nodded impatiently.  "I know that.  It's okay.  What I'm saying is _I_ could go pick them up…"

I cut her off.  "Oh, no, no, no.  You _promised_ me, Monica.  You said that today was absolutely _it_; that tomorrow you were going to rest."

I turned away from her, reaching for the platter of raw hamburger patties and hoping that that would be the end of the conversation.  No such luck.  Monica persisted, delving into her most persuasive tone of voice.  

"Chandler, I'm fine.  Really.  I'm not tired at all!  Plus the doctor says it's good for me to stay active."

"But the weather…" I began to protest.

"The stores are _air-conditioned_," she interrupted, "and so is the car.  Which is more than I can say for here.  Speaking of which, did you call the repairman today?"  

Oops.  I hadn't.  Noting the accusatory look on her face, I scrambled for another reason to support my argument.

"We don't even _need_ the cribs yet, Mon.  We all ready have a basinet, and didn't you say yourself that that would be just fine for now?"

I crossed my arms across my chest and grinned at her smugly.  One point for the Chan-Chan man.  

But, then…damn it.  Her eyes were beginning to well up with tears and she took the tiniest step closer to me, her look pleading.  

"Please, Chandler.  I just want the nursery to be absolutely perfect before they get here.  I've dreamed of this my whole life, and it's so close…"  She trailed off, gazing up at me beseechingly.

And with that, my resolve and I crumbled into our familiar pushover ways.  _'She'll be all right,' _I reasoned.  After all, Monica knew her own limits; she wanted this baby just as much as I did and there was no way she'd ever do anything to endanger it.

I nodded once and furrowed my brow in a futile attempt to look stern.  "Okay.  Tomorrow and that's it, okay?  Then you'll take it easy for a few days?"

Monica grinned victoriously and nodded her assent before grabbing an armful of condiments.  Suddenly overcome by a wave of unexpected emotion, I reached for her, catching her wrist just as she turned to head outside.  She looked back at me, her gaze questioning.  

Words escaped me, so I simply pulled her into a tight embrace, gripping her against me as I struggled to regain control.  Laden with various containers of condiments, she rested her cheek against my chest and I felt her relax, our breath settling into a singular rhythm.

We stayed that way for a minute or two, swaying together wordlessly until Monica finally broke the silence.  

"We'd better get out there.  They'll be wondering where we are."

I released her and laughed, albeit unsteadily.

"Nah, they won't.  They'll be wondering where the food is, more likely," I corrected.

She chuckled, moving once again toward the doorway, but hesitated suddenly.  Glancing back, she fixed me with a concerned stare.

"You okay?"

I nodded and brushed a hand across my eyes surreptitiously in a vain attempt to erase any trace of the tears that had threatened just moments before.  

"I'm fine," I confirmed and fumbled for words, trying to explain the emotions that had taken me by surprise.  "Just…if anything were to ever happen," I paused, frustrated that eloquence had, as usual, escaped me.  Giving up on articulacy, I simply settled for speaking the thought foremost in my mind.

"Just be careful, okay?"

Monica nodded earnestly, and as she did so, the sunlight shifted and radiated through the window in a single stream, illuminating her hair in shimmering waves.  Looking almost ethereal, she rested her free hand on her slightly bulging stomach and smiled at me.

"I always am."

***

The first thing we noticed as we joined our friends was the conspicuous veil of palpable tension; it just couldn't be ignored.  The group was sitting around the picnic table, appearing cordial enough, with Joey, Phoebe, and Mike doing their best to pretend everything was normal by chatting casually about one of Mike's upcoming gigs.  But Rachel had plastered on that fake smile again, only contributing a random comment every so often, but mostly choosing to engross herself in playing with Emma, who squirmed indignantly in protest of being resigned to remain in her mother's lap rather than being allowed to toddle freely around the backyard.   Ross sat in stony silence next to Rachel and his daughter, completely ignoring the attempts to draw him into the conversation.

Quickly sizing up the situation, Monica swiped the plate of hamburger meat from me and offered it to Ross.

"Hey, thanks for getting the grill ready.  Could you do me a favor and start these?  Chandler hasn't quite gotten the hang of it, and besides, no one grills quite like you."

I opened my mouth to protest that I could handle it just fine, but quickly shut it as Monica shot me a Look.  Noticing the way Ross' eyes lit up at the compliment, I nodded at her, understanding.  

Mission accomplished, Monica slid into Ross' vacated spot and touched Rachel briefly on the arm.  

"How's everything going, Rach?  Have you found a place to stay yet once you get to Paris?"  True to form, Monica cut right to the chase and zoomed in on the topic everyone else was so carefully avoiding.

Ross snorted loudly, obviously deciding against subtlety when it came to expressing his opinions on Rachel's move.  

Rachel shrugged in Monica's direction.  "Sort of," she mumbled, fiddling with one of Emma's perfectly tied shoelaces.   

Monica ignored her brother's reaction and seized on Rachel's answer, pressing for further information.  "You have?  That's great!  Where is it?  When did you find it?"

A spatula clattered loudly against the grill's metal racks, and Ross muttered loud enough for us all to hear. 

"Who cares where it is?  As long as it's far enough away from New York…"

Rachel glanced up at Ross, then back down at Emma.  She made a move to leave the table, murmuring something about sunscreen for the baby.  Reaching out, I lifted Emma from Rachel's lap into my own arms.

"Here, Rach, I'll do that.  You don't have to get up."

Looking from me to Monica as if trying to determine our reasons for ambushing her, Rachel thanked me reluctantly and resettled into her seat.  Monica pushed on, repeating her earlier question.

"So where did you say you'll be living?  Is it near your job?"

Another comment from Ross, a little louder this time.  "…far away from her responsibilities.."

Monica raised her own voice, sending a death look at her brother, which he promptly ignored.  Phoebe, Mike, Joey, and I cowered; Rachel appeared on the verge of tears.

"When are you going to be able to move in?"

"…from her family and friends…"  

"Are they going to let you sign a lease for just a year?"  

"…from her own _daughter_…"

Rachel shot to her feet, audibly whacking her knee on the underside of the picnic table as she crawled over the attached bench.  Striding across the lawn to where Ross stood, Rachel stopped just short of getting full in his face.  Her forceful whisper could be easily heard by all of us.  

"Don't you dare!  Don't you _dare_ make me look like a bad mother just so I'll feel guilty about leaving!"

Ross slammed the grill cover closed, primed for a fight.  "Maybe you _should_ feel guilty, Rachel!  Maybe it's not really _me_ you're mad at; maybe you're just mad at _yourself _because you _know_ I'm right!"

Rachel was shaking her head furiously.  "Oh, no!  It's _definitely_ you I'm mad at!"

"Oh, wait.  Of course you are!" Ross slapped his hand against his forehead in mock self-loathing.  "Of course you're mad at me!  Since I've been nothing but responsible and indulgent and understanding of your every fucking whim for years!  But no, this is classic Rachel doing her classic selfish thing!  I don't know why I should expect any different!"

"_Selfish_?" Rachel screeched.  "Oh ho ho!  You wanna talk about _selfish_?  Let's just lay it all out on the table, Ross!  What are the _real _reasons you want me to stay?  It has nothing to do with Emma or with any of our friends—" She gestured wildly at the group of us gaping at the spectacle.  "You just want me to stay for you!  Because somewhere in your mind you still haven't given up hope of _me_ being _yours_ and fitting that picture you have of your perfect family!"

"So what?" Ross hissed at her, a red flush slowly creeping its way up his neck into his face.  "Is that really such a bad thing?"

"When you haven't even asked me if it's what _I_ want?  Yes, Ross, it is!" 

"So maybe I haven't asked directly.  It's not like you've never given me any indications!"

Now it was Rachel's turn to flush, and she threw a flustered glance over her shoulder at her audience.

"I know what I said," she acquiesced, barely audible.  "I just don't know if it's what I really want anymore."

Ross halted in mid-retort, as if he'd been slapped, and stood speechless for a long moment, every angry line dissolving from his face to be replaced by a gaze of such sadness that I had to look away.  Turning back to his earlier task, he fixed Rachel with one last look, almost earnest in spite of his harsh words prior.  

"Maybe," he said softly, "you shouldn't make promises you can't keep."

Rachel held his gaze for a moment before whirling abruptly.  She snatched Emma from my arms, startling the little girl into bewildered whimpers, and hurried into the house.  Monica ran after her, and after a moment, Phoebe followed.  

Feeling unprepared to deal with the aftermath, and probably against my better judgment, I chose to leave Ross alone and instead, joined Joey and Mike at the table.  Collapsing into the space next to Mike, across from Joey, I propped my elbows on the table and buried my face in my hands.  I didn't stay that way for long, though, as I was interrupted by someone insistently poking my arm.  

"Chandler."

I grunted in non-commitment, but didn't bother to look up.  The poking continued. 

"Chandler," Joey whispered insistently.

Dropping my arms, I fixed him with an impassive stare.  "What?"

"Do you think we're still gonna get to eat dinner?"

Mike and I stared at him incredulously.  "Is that really all you can think about?  Your stomach?"

Joey crossed his arms.  "Look," he huffed indignantly, "of course I care about what's happening with them.  But let's get real--we've been through this before.  And this time, I just don't wanna end up eating wax."

***

"So she just left?  She didn't want to talk about it at all?  She didn't say _anything_?" I asked Monica disbelievingly the next morning.

Monica paused in thoughtful consideration.  "No, not really," she responded, her voice muffled as she pulled a clean shirt over her head.  "Just that she was sorry she had ruined the day after all, and she would call me later."  

I gave a pensive 'hmm', and turned back to the task at hand.  Grimacing at my shaving cream-covered face in the mirror, I flicked on the water and rinsed my razor thoroughly.  I heard Monica say something from her location in the adjoining master bedroom and turned off the faucet to hear her better.  

"What'd you say?" I called to her, and then started as she appeared suddenly in the bathroom's doorway.  

"I said, do you want to meet me for lunch later?"  

I nodded and winced as the forgotten razor sliced into my jaw line.  Accepting the tissue Monica handed me, I applied pressure to the wound and answered her.

"Sure.  Just call me when you know what time you want to meet."

"Okay."  Standing on tiptoe, Monica planted a kiss on my forehead—one of the only places not covered by foam or blood—and padded out of the bathroom in her bare feet.

"Love you!" I called after her.

"Love you, too!"

***

A few hours later, Monica smiled gratefully at the store employee diligently maneuvering the two crib boxes into her limited trunk space.  Using a sleeve to mop his sweaty forehead, he gingerly shut the trunk and turned to face Monica.

"I think that'll do it, ma'am," he drawled, his southern accent clearly announcing his status as a non-native New Yorker.  "Except for the mattresses, of course," he added, glancing over Monica's shoulder.

Sure enough, Monica turned to find another man patiently balancing two plastic-encased crib mattresses and waiting for further instruction.  Assessing her little Porsche doubtfully, Monica pulled the back door open and gestured inside.

"I think they'll fit in here," she told the men, as all three eyed the objects in question warily.

To Monica's relief, they did fit—barely.  She leaned against the door, squeezing it shut against the sound of protesting plastic, and grinned triumphantly at the two men watching her with dubious expressions.

"I don't know," said one of the men.  "You won't be able to see out the back windows at all."

Monica shrugged, unconcerned.  _'As long as I can see out of my side mirrors,' _she reasoned silently.

So convinced, she thanked the two employees for their help and slipped into the driver's seat.  The seat had been pulled as far forward as it would go in order to accommodate the objects in the backseat and, as a result, Monica barely had room to move in her own seat, despite her petite frame.  Sliding the keys into the ignition and pressing lightly on the pedals, Monica noticed her knee was bent into a semi-uncomfortable position and her slightly extended tummy rested lightly against the bottom edge of the steering wheel.

Taking a deep breath, Monica started the car and drove out of the store's loading zone into the busy city mid-day traffic.

Mentally mapping out the shortest route to the deli she and Chandler had agreed upon for lunch, Monica swung onto a less-traveled street, hoping to avoid some of the lunch rush.  Much to her annoyance, she found herself at a complete stop behind a long line of beeping cars as a semi-truck held up traffic in its attempt to back into a side alley.  Sighing impatiently, Monica checked the clock, heightening her anxiety as she realized she was going to be very late meeting Chandler.  Another glance forward at the semi and its dilemma convinced her that she probably wouldn't going anywhere fast, and with one last sigh, Monica reached for her cell phone on the passenger seat.  

The cell phone, however, wasn't where Monica had tossed it as she'd squeezed into the car.  Keeping one eye on the traffic ahead, Monica scanned the car for the missing phone, finally spotting it on the passenger-side floorboard.  Leaning sideways across the gearshift, she stretched her fingers in an attempt to retrieve the wayward object, but it proved to be just beyond her reach.  

"Damn it," she muttered, unbuckling her seatbelt.  Leaning a little further, she groped awkwardly for the phone, grimacing in discomfort as her stomach pressed harder against the steering wheel.

Eyes completely off the traffic now, she failed to notice as the semi-truck successfully completed its mission and the cars in front of her began to slowly roll forward once again.  And she didn't hear as horns belonging to cars trapped behind her own began to insistently beep, adamantly demanding that she move.  And when the oversized pick-up truck behind her plowed into her back bumper, crushing her little Porsche into the van in front of her with surprising force, Monica didn't remember anything.  She only recalled feeling surprise, and then a sharp pain deep in her stomach, as the world around her faded to black. 


End file.
